


Devil Get Your Gold

by barbarosabee



Series: Wander the Fires [4]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, Horror, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Potential Spoilers, Supernatural Elements, are easter eggs considered spoilers?, tagging anyways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 12:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19356766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbarosabee/pseuds/barbarosabee
Summary: Arthur finds another of the endless horrors of Roanoke Ridge.





	Devil Get Your Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all been to that two-story house kinda near Van Horn, you can only get into it by climbing a second story window. Well I found that house today and it made me DEEPLY UNCOMFORTABLE and this story is the result of that.

The light of the almost-full moon sliced through the close-growing trees almost tricked him into forgetting where they were. Hard to see the red dirt on a night like this, but the ever-present heat pressed to him like a second skin was a constant reminder they’d had to pack up and move down to Lemoyne. Certainly not his first choice but he didn’t have any kind of say in these sorts of things.

Charles leaned his gun against the tree to light a cigarette. The nearest road was too far for anyone to wander close enough to see their camp, and watches tended to be pretty dull. Everyone was still getting settled, nothing crazy had happened yet. Charles suspected that would change once they all got sick of the heat; it took Sean all of an hour to get sunburned pink and he was being an absolute  _ child _ about it.

Charles snuffed his match. A neat pile had already accumulated from several previous shifts. Charles appreciated everything the gang had done for him, but he enjoyed these quiet moments to himself. Smoked slowly, gun hung loose from the strap over his shoulder.

Felt the hoofbeats before he heard them. Stubbed the cigarette out on his shoe, got the gun ready in his hands.

“Who goes there?”

There was enough light for him to see Arthur hunched over Calliope’s neck. Charles could hear her labored breathing all the way from here.

“Arthur? Slow down!”

Arthur tore past him without a word. Concerned, Charles jogged along the torn-up trail left by Calliope’s hooves. He saw Arthur dismount her far too close to the main fire, a startled Uncle slurring something about being woken up. Charles hurried his pace, but by the time he caught up Arthur was already stomping back to Calliope from his tent. Pockets bulging with boxes of ammunition, saddlebags equally full slung over his shoulders.

“Arthur, what the hell is going on?”

Not even sparing Charles a glance, Arthur continued his beeline for Calliope. The poor horse was covered in white lather, breathing heavily. Charles knew what it took to tire that horse out, surprised him that Arthur would take her back out again. Clearly he’d pushed her to a gallop for some time in the persistent heat of Lemoyne.

“Arthur!”

Arthur spared Charles a quick glance as he held out something to Calliope. She’d had her head nearly buried in the water trough. Charles was relieved to see Arthur wasn’t injured, at least nothing obvious—no torn clothes, no dark patches on his pants or shirt. Limp strands of hair hung over his face, shining with sweat. Seemed to have lost his hat at some point, but that could’ve just as easily been Calliope’s doing.

“Arthur, tell me what happened.”

Arthur tossed his saddlebags into place.

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Arthur—”

Arthur mounted, yanked Calliope away from the trough. She fought him, and Charles’ confusion only deepened when he saw the makeshift rope bridle she wore. So something  _ had  _ happened. 

“Said I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He kicked Calliope into the same all-out gallop he had arrived in. Charles had to put up a hand to keep the dirt out of his face.

Arthur disappeared down the trail as the first pinks of dawn reached out across the sky.

  
  
  


 

_ Twelve hours earlier _

 

The cloying heat did little to suppress the shudder along Arthur’s spine. Hated that they’d moved camp to Lemoyne. If he’d had more of a say in things, he would’ve insisted they keep pushing west. Forget everything that happened in Blackwater,  _ screw the money _ . Wasn’t worth being so far south  _ and east _ , closer to civilization. Closer to the law. Closer to Roanoke Ridge.

When he’d left camp that morning, it was with the sole intention of rustling up some cash. But he’d forgotten about the gators, and so had Calliope, apparently—she bolted in the opposite direction at the first hiss and Arthur couldn’t get a handle on her until they were into the cooler woods.

Once Calliope was settled, two peppermints and an oatcake later, Arthur took a moment to scan the area for any kind of trail. They’d stopped on a small rise and all he could see was the railroad track, so he steered Calliope towards that and followed it eastward. Wasn’t planning on going back to camp empty-handed, and if he had his bearings right he was near Van Horn. Could try a few rounds of blackjack, maybe pickpocket the drunks later in the evening. Wouldn’t be much but it was better than nothing. Bag some fresh game on his return trip. . . .

Arthur blinked and the world around him changed considerably. Must not have had his bearings right  _ at all _ because he found himself at the end of the overgrown trail leading up to the house where he first met the witch of Roanoke Ridge.

There was no house.

Calliope snorted and shifted beneath him, danced sideways, spun in a tight circle. Arthur turned her around and trotted some distance away to hitch her. Reached into his bag blind and tossed some food at her feet, eyes glued to the spot where the house used to be.

A violent wind burst through the trees and threatened to take Arthur’s hat with it. His hands remained at his side. Cold sweat sprouted down his neck, his upper lip, his palms. The air had frozen and his breath puffed white as he approached the gaping hole. His back burned, vague, could almost believe it was the sun cutting through the trees but he knew better. The mark had disappeared when the witch died, but he still hurt, sense memory of it an old badly-healed wound.

The broken fence still encircled the area. Arthur paused in the gap at the end of the path. Hole maybe ten feet away. Glowed faintly, cold billowing out of it like wind off a Grizzlies peak. The hair on his arms stood straight up and ice raced along his spine. Something like nausea garbled his insides as he was thrown to his knees by the wind, pressed into his back until he threw his hands out to keep from tumbling into the hole.

The black was hazed over in pale blue, a watercolor exposed to rain. Not black like the voids he saw in the wendigo’s face, no, something  _ different— _ voids were nothing, led nowhere. This black here, the black of the absence of something, the black of a door opened to an unlit windowless room. There was nothing in the voids of the wendigo’s eyes but waiting death, and here where a house used to be Arthur felt like he was being drawn into another world where he wouldn’t die, not really, but he knew,  _ knew _ whatever awaited him was much, much worse than death.

A wisp of blue smoke curled over the edge towards him. Arthur stared at the shapes flickering within, bile rising in his throat, hands numb where they curled into the frigid, dark dirt. The blue smoke snake paused an inch from his hand, and—

And Arthur was yanked back by his jacket, hat knocked off by the force of it. The smoke recoiled immediately and when Arthur blinked there was no hole, no fence, no house, just a grassy clearing tucked against a sheer hill, surrounded by trees.

Hot breath against his bare neck made Arthur look over his shoulder. Calliope had his jacket firmly in her teeth. She’d broken her halter to get to him, the reins dangling over her shoulders, bit hanging free of her mouth. Breathing like she’d run a mile and not the few yards back to Arthur from where he’d tied her. 

“It’s okay girl, you can let go now.” 

Calliope snorted. It tickled Arthur’s ear, eased the nausea a bit. She kept dragging. 

She dragged him down the hill, through thick brush that caught between Arthur’s rucked-up jacket and his loose shirt. Miss Grimshaw was going to have a field day with him when he got back.

Calliope abruptly stopped and released Arthur’s jacket. He flopped onto his back without her support. She stood over him, nosing along his face, bumping into his chest. Pulled some of his hair into her mouth until he pushed her away with a hand to her cheek. Rolled onto his stomach and pushed to his feet, a little unsteady. No longer felt like he’d lose his lunch but things weren’t quite  _ right _ .

Calliope had managed to find a road. Arthur thought he might be able to see water through the trees, but he first focused on getting Calliope’s tack in working order. Wasn’t much he could do, turned out, since she’d utterly destroyed all the important pieces. He removed the halter and stuffed it into a saddlebag, went about fashioning a temporary one from his rope. It’s what he would use if he’d just broken a wild horse, wouldn’t give him the same amount of control. 

Arthur leaned his head against Calliope’s neck and closed his eyes. Songbirds called to each other above him. A crow protested his presence before flying off in a hurry. A faint breeze tangled with the barest heat, a hint to remind him he was still in Lemoyne. His fingers felt bruised, like he’d been dragging a rope with some great weight attached to the end.

“Fine lookin’ horse you got there!”

Arthur jerked at the voice. An older man on a tired-looking mule had stopped a respectable distance from them.

“Oh, sorry mister! Didn’t mean to scare ya. You alright?”

Arthur waved the man off. “Sure, just some trouble with the tack’s all. You have yourself a good day.”

The man tipped his hat. “And to you too, sir!”

Arthur sighed, listened to the man trot away. Thumped Calliope on the neck a few times before swinging into the saddle.

“Now don’t you get any ideas just cuz y’ain’t got a bit to fight, y’hear?”

Calliope swung her head back to give him that look she always gave him when he questioned her ability to follow instructions. Puffed air at him, pawed at the ground once, twice.

Arthur offered her one last peppermint before nudging her down the track. “There’s a good girl.”

  
  
  
  


Just a few hours ahead of sundown when the house came into view. Boarded up and overgrown. The road in front of it hadn’t been traveled by any wagons recently, plants growing in the faded wheel grooves. He’d taken the path on a whim when it split off from the main road, no signs telling where it went but Arthur figured he needed to familiarize himself with the area anyways. 

Glad he’d taken it, house this big  _ had _ to have something valuable inside.

He did a quick loop of the property before hitching Calliope to a tree by the broken fence. Gave her a bit of a longer lead to play out, couldn’t risk her breaking the makeshift halter. Every window and door had thick boards nailed across it except for an upstairs window. Could get up to it, easily, just had to get on those crates and hop onto the patchy roof above the sagging porch.

Arthur inched onto the roof, tapped one foot ahead of the other. Last thing he wanted was to limp back to camp bloody and bruised  _ again _ . Couldn’t see much through the broken window, too many shadows cast as the trees obscured the sun. He brushed the broken glass from the windowsill with the back of a gloved hand. 

Arthur’s eyes stung and the smell staggered him as soon as his feet touched the creaky floorboards. Pinched his nose shut and breathed into his glove as he surveyed the room. 

Really wished he’d just gone back to camp.

The murky green inside the glass jars did nothing to conceal the bits and pieces within. Arthur could make out a pig’s head and various animal feet in the open-topped ones immediately to his left. Might be where most of the smell was coming from. He took a half-step to the right but that wasn’t any better—nowhere he looked, nowhere he could move, was any better, this whole place—

“The hell  _ is _ this place?”

Animals sewn together with mismatched halves. High on the wall was a horned salmon attached to the back of a deer. A raccoon with a baby alligator’s head and an extra set of arms hunched on the cramped desk. A reptilian body had wings stuck on its back, the head missing. Or put on something else.

“ _ Jesus _ ,” was all Arthur could manage as he inched forwards. A long table, bloodied and rotten, dominated the room and he had to shimmy past it to the  _ true _ horror that lurked in the back.

It’d be taller than him even if it weren’t suspended from the ceiling. Two sets of arms, body of a black bear, or maybe a boar, a pig’s head with a different pig’s snout stapled onto the front. 

The longer he looked at it, the more he realized it was just some fucked up taxidermy.  _ Real _ fucked up, but it was just dead, stuffed animals. . . . cut up and sewn into. . . . _ this. _

Arthur ignored the pounding of his heart and searched the room more thoroughly. Found some mighty interesting bits of paper on the origin of this “creature.” Thing was suppose to come to life, according to its creator.  _ Thank christ for small miracles _ , Arthur thought as he searched every drawer. Might as well make this horror worth it. Got a few things he could sell or donate to camp, at least. Long as he got back tonight, early tomorrow morning with a deer, no one would have any reason to holler at him.

One last thing to check, and he could get the hell out of here. Only had about an hour of true daylight left and he was  _ not _ going to travel the swamps at night. You couldn’t get him to do that again if you held a gun to his head.

Arthur crouched in front of the desk. Certain he’d seen something shoved all the way back against the wall—yup, there it was, a little lock box. Reached for it, had to really duck under the desk, realized he hadn’t picked his hat up earlier—alright, there was  _ one _ thing he could get hollered at for, that would be his fifth hat this month. 

The clang of metal hitting the floor bodily startled Arthur, and he hit the desk hard enough to shift it and knock things off. Glass shattered. A bitter smell surged into the air and the nausea from earlier slammed into him.

Arthur scrambled out from beneath the desk. Swore as he rubbed his head. One of the jars of animal legs had fallen from the desk and Arthur’s mind revolted at the wrongness of the color of the severed limbs.

_ Thump. Thump _ . The sound wrenched Arthur’s gaze to the other end of the room.

The taxidermy creature stood at the end of the table. It took a step forward, pressed into the mouldering wood. The chains holding it to the ceiling had broken, that must have been the metal he heard—

The table collapsed from the creature’s weight and that was all it took to get Arthur moving again. He didn’t want to turn his back to it, but he had no other way of leaving.

It made a noise eerily similar to a wild boar, close enough he wouldn’t’ve thought anything of it had he been outside in the woods hunting. Like a wild boar but also more human.

Nearly tripped on his own feet trying to get to the window. The creature squealed again. More crashing, metal flying everywhere and glass obliterated as it thrashed about.

Arthur flung himself through the window. The tip of his boot caught on the sill, sent him onto his side and rolling off the roof. He landed on the rotting porch, couldn’t tell if the crunch was his bones or the wood. Impossible to tell with the wind punched from him. He struggled to sit, mind racing between the need to call Calliope closer and the need to  _ run the fuck away _ .

A louder squeal from the window. Arthur saw the creature through gaps in the roof, and oh  _ it was so much worse in the daylight _ . Adrenaline bore deep into him and he thrashed his way out of the remains of the porch and sprinted for Calliope.

He risked a look over his shoulder as he yanked Calliope free. Regretted it.

The creature had managed to get down from the roof. Hard to tell where it was looking, eyes dead and white and glazed as glass. Could tell it was sniffing the air. It took a step forward, two, three, and then it  _ screamed _ loud and hoarse like an enraged grizzly.

Calliope bolted before Arthur could properly get in the saddle and he was reminded of their first mad dash away from danger. Only he would’ve preferred they were running from O’Driscolls and not  _ some goddamn nightmare monster _ . 

Wasn’t sure how he did it, but Arthur kicked his way into the saddle and didn’t try to slow Calliope down one bit.

  
  
  


When Calliope started to flag, Arthur pressed her forward. Stopped once to let her get a drink and then he was pushing her past her limits. The fear had faded somewhat, replaced with something like determination. Arthur had no earthly idea what the  _ hell _ that thing was, but he knew it weren’t as bad as the things he had already faced. Didn’t feel like it could curse him, didn’t feel like it was going to chase him until he died. It weren’t natural, but it wasn’t the kind of thing they’d have to go to Native elders to find out how to kill.

Most things like this just needed to be burned to death, right? Had worked the last three times.

Arthur crashed into camp. Calliope heaved beneath him. Her sweat had soaked through the blanket, through his pants, and the humidity wasn’t allowing anything to dry. He felt sticky and gross and sorry for pushing her so hard but he was  _ not _ going to be able to get any sleep unless that thing was dead. Someone on watch called after him but he ignored them, nearly trampled Uncle where he’d fallen asleep next to the fire, rather than his usual spot. Arthur swung off Calliope and grabbed his saddlebags; Calliope trotted over to the water trough and began loudly slurping at it.

“Arthur!” 

Charles, then. 

Arthur ignored him. Focused on stuffing as much ammunition as he could carry into his pockets, and when those were full he went on to the saddlebags. Carefully wrapped the firebottles in some extra cloth before shoving them in as well. Arthur paused long enough to shrug out of his ripped coat before stomping back over to Calliope.

She whinnied at him, water dripping down her face and clinging to the rope harness. Shit, he still needed to get proper tack.

It could wait.

Charles had caught up to him as Arthur offered Calliope a few oatcakes.

“Arthur, tell me what happened.”

Arthur sighed, tied the saddlebags down again. “Should be back tomorrow.”

Charles glared. “Arthur—”

“Said I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Hopped into the saddle, jerked Calliope away from the trough. She grumbled, fought him for a second, stepped sideways and nearly into a sleeping Taima. Arthur finally got a handle on her and spurred her out of camp at a dead gallop with a loud  _ yah! _

The sun had started to come up, not quite high enough to shine off the lake but enough that some of camp was awake. Charles heard someone come up behind him and turned to see a confused Dutch with a lit cigar.

“What was that all about?”

“Don’t know.”

Dutch’s eyes fell to the fresh trail Arthur had left, Calliope’s hooves digging deep into the soft red earth. Puffed on the cigar.

“I’ve never seen him be like that with Calliope.”

Dutch took a deep drag of the cigar, sighed on the exhale. “You better go after him, Mr. Smith.”

**Author's Note:**

> love/hate relationship with this area of the game GOOD GOD ROCKSTAR. THANK YOU.
> 
> (I swear I'm working on finishing Return to Blackshear Butte ok sorry if you're waiting for that to update)


End file.
